


all the cities i've been to don't compare (to you)

by theviolonist



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-31
Updated: 2012-05-31
Packaged: 2017-11-06 10:25:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/417797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theviolonist/pseuds/theviolonist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p><br/> <em>magret de canard à la sauce au poivre avec purée de carottes</em>: duck fillet with pepper sauce and mashed carrots</p><p><em>bon appétit: </em>enjoy your meal</p><p><em>bonsoir</em>: good evening</p><p><em>comment allez-vous?</em>: how are you? </p><p><em>très bien</em>: fine</p><p><em>tu en veux?</em>: you want some? </p><p><em>tu es mignon</em>: you're cute</p><p><em>ton visage va rester bloqué comme ça</em>: your face is going to stay stuck like that</p><p><em>voulez-vous coucher avec moi? ce soir?</em>: do you want to sleep with me? tonight? (lyrics from <em>lady marmalade</em>, which i'm sure you all know)</p><p><em>oui</em>: yes</p></blockquote>





	all the cities i've been to don't compare (to you)

zayn loves france. paris is nothing like london, nothing like new york either. london is – london is zayn's country, the accent and the buses and the tourists, buckingham palace and the little roads, this indian restaurant he and the lads go to when they don't want to be mobbed by the fangirls, the irish bars they sneak out to when niall's homesick that smell of music and easy laughter. london is all that and more. london is the city zayn is always happy to get back to, because it means  _being home_ , it means their apartment complex and their friends and their parents a few hours' drive away. london is haven when it all becomes too much.  
  
new york is big. it's really the only thing that came to zayn's mind when they climbed off of the plane for the first time – big. the airport was like a little town, buzzing and white with people talking with strange accents, and all of zayn's geography lessons (at least the ones he paid attention to) came back in a rush, three hundred million inhabitants, third biggest country in the world, and it overwhelmed him, rose to his throat like a yell or sob or something. (new york never stopped being overwhelming. everytime zayn goes there he feels electric and wound-up – he looks up at the skyscrapers and thinks,  _new york, new york, new york_ ).  
  
those aren't the only ones; there are so many others, and sometimes zayn thinks that he can't say that he has visited all these country because all he has seen is the capital and the inside of a concert hall but it isn't sadness, only  _i'll have to go back_ , and he thinks about coming back and looking at the airport chairs thinking  _so long_.  
  
the others boys are amazed all the same, of course – it's pretty difficult not to be when liam's the only one of them that had visited more than three countries before that. they try to enjoy it every time, even when they're tired and grumpy and want nothing but go home – because fuck, maybe they'll never get an opportunity like that again, so they force themselves to open their eyes and try and soak everything up. zayn's the one that this floors the most, though. he'd never left the uk, never gone further than his little town, and  _london_  was an adventure for him. he'd never taken a plane... this story holds so many of his firsts.  
  
paris is another city whose beauty kicks zayn in the stomach and makes him forget how to breathe. paris is rain and paved roads and fast-walking people who always seem to know where they're going. paris is the crumbling subway and dreadful weather and this language that zayn doesn't understand but lets himself slip in, fresh and rustling like a new shirt. paris is beautiful boys and girls and another audience screaming their lyrics along and zayn has never been happier.  
  
they go to a restaurant after the concert. it's a little thing with a french name, and it's fancy but not too fancy, perfect for them. they're all exhausted but they've taken the time to go back to the hotel and shower, so it's a good kind of exhausted, the kind that makes louis talk a little slower and pillow his head in his folded arms on the table, not caring about being proper; that makes liam smile sleepily and chuckle instead of scolding him; that makes niall ( - well, no. niall just eats, as usual). zayn likes this kind tiredness that makes the edges of the world smoother, blurrier.  
  
(and there's something poetic about the waiters in black and white like pawns on a chess board, the fuzzy ironwrung streetlights, a tiny lullaby that a black woman is singing to her child in a corner that smells like coffee and chocolate. paris is poetic. zayn loves it.)  
  
the guy who brings them their food very obviously doesn't speak a word of english, which is pretty rare these days but isn't particularly surprising given how bad the french are at english in general, but he makes up for it in pretty. louis unfolds and whistles when he comes by their table, and the guy smiles back at him, flirty and easy.  
  
"magret de canard à la sauce au poivre avec purée de carottes," he says with an interrogative tilt to his voice as he raises a plate.  
  
zayn blinks.  
  
he eventually decides that it's his plate (he recognized some of the syllables? maybe?) and gestures to the guy. his hand brushes against zayn's chest as he puts the plate down and he apologize neatly, an amenable smile on his lips. zayn gets the urge to tell him that it's no problem  _at all_ , then promptly decides that it's probably better the guy doesn't speak english.  
  
"bon appétit," the guy says.  
  
that zayn recognizes. he mutters a "merci" that is apparently pronounced horrendously enough to make the guy smile.  
  
they don't really see him more over the course of their dinner, which is as good as it is overpriced and spent laughing and trading easy jokes, pressed together as they're used to. zayn took a long time to grow used to the proximity, louis's handsiness and niall's familiarity, the way they would sling their arms around his shoulders and take him by the waist, take his hand, grab his bum. he's glad he did – there's nothing that soothes him more than this, when he feels like he's attached to them as though by a tether, nurturing him.  
  
he catches the waiter's boucing curls once or twice, his lazy smile as he hands the menu to other customers. he's really pretty, in that way that only french boys have – warm and slow, with large shirts their scrawny bodies float in, sharp collarbones jutting against the pale skin. zayn makes a mental note to try and talk to him later, maybe ask the bodyguards for a bit of coaching in french pick-up lines.  
  
by the time they're done eating, however, the waiter is nowhere to be seen, and he's been replaced at their table by a prim young girl with flawless english that introduces herself as julia, her chestnut hair tidily drawn back in a ponytail. zayn shrugs mentally – it doesn't really matter, and he could use a night's sleep, for once. they still have at least a dozen venues to play before the tour is over, and he'll need all the rest he can get.  
  
they don't order coffee – louis always jokes that they're too young to order coffee at the end of a meal, and they don't need the extra caffeine to keep them awake, anyway –, but niall splurges on dessert, says he's got to enjoy french baking and stuffs his mouth with virtually everything on the dessert menu, ranging from strawberry  _tartelette_  to  _éclairs_  and  _crème brûlée_. julia brings them at the table looking each time a little more wide-eyed and amazed. niall smiles at her with chocolate-stained teeth.  
  
zayn is happy. it always takes him by surprise, floors him – he didn't see it coming, and it all happened so fast, happiness happiness happiness, elation spreading like honey in his tired bones, warm and new. he's not used to it. sometimes he watches their faces when they aren't looking, louis's shap cheekbones and lightning smile, niall's ocean eyes, liam's autumnal features, and it steals the air right out of his chest. _i'm part of this_ , he thinks.  
  
(they know how he feels. he's always quiet, the one who sits in the back and doesn't talk much, sings the high harmonies and smokes with nonchalant wrists, but sometimes they turn to him and they smile. it's quiet and it's beautiful, a bit like an homage.)  
  
by the time they start yawning and decide to go back to the hotel, it's dark outside, a parisian darkness, the night ink black, sweetly suffused with the lampposts' orange glow. the light that ricochets on the paved street make it look like it's raining. zayn feels serenity spreading in his veins.  
  
there's shuffling around the table, the guys paying and telling paul that they're going back to the hotel. they put their coats on – they all look exhausted. it's time they got some sleep. zayn knows there are going to be fangirls screaming under their windows back at the hotel (when aren't there?) and maybe it's just wishful thinking, but for some reason he feels like this night is going to be peaceful.  
  
"i'm going to stay there for a bit, guys," he says, showing them his still-lit cigarette, "just the time to finish this."  
  
louis nods and zayn negotiates with paul so that he can stay here for a few minutes ("half an hour  _tops_  before i send a security team, okay?" paul says) without supervision. zayn nods, feeling mellow.  _okay, okay_ , he says, and his head bobs in rhythm. he exhales soft rings of smoke that aren't perfect rings – he never could manage that, but he still has hope.  
  
he watches the boys trickle out of the restaurant – niall manages to charm julia into giving him her number, a rosy blush high on her cheeks. niall laughs. he's always most beautiful when he laughs, zayn thinks. he doesn't do anything by halves (laughing; biting).  
  
he finishes his cigarette slowly, letting himself drowse in this warmth that smells of smoke. music flows from a radio or a jukebox in the corner, softly crackling. zayn orders a glass of white wine. he feels old, almost ancient, like his bones are wooden and his throat is dry. it's not unpleasant.  
  
eventually, julia shows up at his table and tells him that he has to leave because they're closing, an apologetic smile curled at the corner of her mouth. he nods yes, don't worry. he licks a last droplet of wine from his glass, watches the lights a little more, soft orange gleaming ochre on the wooden counter, metallic grey on the silverware, and the sweet pallor of the moon outside, bouncing off the glass panelling.  
  
he leaves a few bills on the table and shrugs his coat on, extracting himself from the seat with his hands. it feels like he's grown in the hard leather and it refuses to let him go, like a sand-crusted shell, polished green glass around him like a mediterranean necklace.  
  
"thank you," he says to julia as he leaves. she smiles back. he hopes niall will call her. he likes her soft curves – she looks like something edible, a slice of one of these swedish cakes that melt in the mouth, drenched in honey.  
  
the sharp wind hits him brusquely, and a shudder rolls on his shoulders. it isn't violent, though, and zayn only wraps his coat more closely around his ribcage, feeling small all of a sudden, in a city that belongs to someone else, shadowed by this dark blue sky.  
  
he knows the way to the hotel (paul gave him a pretty detailed briefing) and decides to walk to there – it isn't that far, and his legs feel a bit numb. he needs to stretch. he yawns in his palm, wiping the condensation on his jeans. the cold infiltrate his clothes and pinpricks of cold pinch the skin of his skin, the place where neck meets jaw, his wrists.  
  
he feels a bit light-headed, a bit young, a big stupid, probably a joint effect of the alcohol and the cold, but it's good, not dangerous. he runs in the wind with outstretched arms, pretending to be an airplane.  
  
eventually, he spots a silhouette on the sidewalk (it's mostly desert at this hour, apparently this isn't the neighborhood for parisian nightlife). he runs and stops in front of it, out of breath, hands on his knees.  
  
"hi," he says.  
  
"bonsoir," the stranger replies.  
  
it isn't a stranger, zayn realizes when he looks up – it's the waiter from before, and he's smoking, a bike leant on the side on the side of the bench where he's sitting, cross-legged.  
  
zayn tries to rack up the miserable french he knows from his high school years, and regrets not to have paid more attention (to be fair, the teacher was ugly and you'd have to be liam payne to focus on french conjugations while  _louis tomlinson_  is saying stupid shit next to you). it would come in handy right now, though. his blood is beating in his veins, and his heart in his chest. he feels  _real_.  
  
"um," he says, and the boy smiles, "comment allez-vous?"  
  
it's probably not appropriate at this hour of the night, seeing how zayn thinks he remembers it meaning,  _how are you_ , but screw appropriate. it's not like he makes a habit of approaching strangers sitting on benches at one in the morning.  
  
"très bien," the boy answers, which, for all zayn knows, could mean,  _my grandmother died today_. zayn's going to go with his gut instinct and say he doesn't look like he's grandmother-grieving. but he could be wrong. the guy is sitting in a bench at one on the morning, after all. (he can never point out enough the weirdness of this scenario.)  
  
"zayn," zayn says, holding a hand out. at least he can't go wrong with that (an alarm goes off in his head – actually, he probably shouldn't communicate with people, maybe this guy is a creepy stalker, all in paul's scary-bear voice – but the guy he's cute, and come on, what self-respecting psychopath has  _curls_?).  
  
"harry," the boy answers, and shuffles on the bench so that zayn can sit next to him.  
  
"tu en veux?" he asks, holding the cigarette out. zayn is going to take a leap and assume that he's asking if zayn wants a drag. which, given that harry doesn't react when zayn takes the cigarette, seems to be right. ha, he's getting good at this.  
  
they don't talk for a few minutes. the air is different around him, warm and electric, with an undercurrent of smooth laziness. it's a bit unsettling, and zayn usually doesn't like unsettling, but he feels okay, basking in the precariousness of the moment.  
  
he decides that he isn't going to seduce the boy without making conversation, so he searches for any pick-up lines he might've heard in songs. wasn't there the one...? wait, what was it? (but wasn't it from the nineties or some shit? oh, bugger. it's not like he's got anything to lose, is it?)  
  
he opens his mouth to say it, but is taken by surprise when harry leans in and plants one right on him. zayn is frozen for a second, his brain mostly going 'wait, what?', and when he tries to reciprocate, harry pulls away. he's smiling, though, so he can't be, like, hurt or anything. that's that.  
  
"um," zayn says. he could be more eloquent, but given that a complete stranger just kissed him with no apparent reason, he thinks it's pretty appropriate.  
  
"tu es mignon," harry says, shrugging, which is probably an explanation and would be very helpful if zayn  _understood a bloody word of it_. he settles for gaping stupidly.  
  
"ton visage va rester bloqué comme ça," harry says in what zayn is pretty sure is a teasing tone.  
  
he closes his mouth.  
  
"so," he starts, and curses internally when harry looks up at him, eyebrows drawn together, all like,  _i don't understand what you're going to say_. right. who knew hooking up in a foreign country would be so difficult. city of love, his ass.  
  
since it seems to be the simplest way of communicating around here, he plucks the cigarette from harry's fingers, ignoring his indignant squeak, takes a drag for courage, and kisses harry. he does it properly this time, curling a hand at the base of harry's neck and reeling him in, and harry doesn't protest, only smiles, cocking his head to give zayn better access.  
  
it's a good kiss, a  _real_  kiss – they taste like smoke and the food from the restaurant, three-stars duck with mashed carrots. harry moans lazily and it reverberates in zayn's throat, adding a bit of spice to the slow-slide of tongues. one of harry's hand migrates to zayn's knee.  
  
it takes a car driving by them at full speed to make them part, jumping back in surprise at the loud engine noise and the darting headlights. they look at each other and burst out laughing, hands on their knees, shaking with helpless laughter. it feels like companionship.  
  
when they eventually stop laughing, looking at each other with red cheeks, breathless, zayn conjures all of his courage and confidence and turns to look harry in the eye.  
  
"voulez-vous coucher avec moi?" he asks, trying not to stumble on the words. "ce soir?"  
  
harry blinks owlishly.  
  
a beat of silence, two.  
  
then he folds over and starts laughing, his whole body shaking with it, head lolling and hands folded across his stomach, murmuring things like "j'hallucine", in which zayn recognizes the universal 'are you for  _real_ ' tone. he frowns. he's not used at being laughed when he attempts seduction (which he doesn't, except when he's hammered. usually his superstar status does the most of the hard work for him, which is just as well, because zayn's good at being mysterious and all that, but not so much at chatting people up. case in point.), and it's not like it's particularly flattering.  
  
eventually (though after what seems like a long,  _long_  time), harry stops laughing, makes a big show of pretending to swipe the tears away from his eyes with a finger, and turns to look at zayn. "oui," he says.  
  
zayn is a bit taken aback (saying he had expected a kind-yet-firm rejection after this reaction would be a euphemism) but takes it in stride and leans to plant an excited peck on harry's lips, not quite believing his luck. harry takes his hand and stands up. they do a bit of awkward gesticulating for a moment, though it involves harry leaning in and kissing zayn's throat, his eyelids and his chin while he's trying to convey 'my place is a hotel and we're going to have very great sex if we get there eventually', which is nice. and distracting. but nice. eventually they settle (or at least that's how zayn understands it, but harry doesn't protest, so zayn goes ahead and makes decisions, because it's not that he's horny, but he's  _very, very_  horny. with this bloody tour, he hasn't had sex in  _months_ , and he's eighteen, so his hormones are pretty much all over the place right now.) on zayn riding the bike to the hotel ("ho-tel." harry looks at him like he's gone crazy.) and harry riding behind him.  
  
as they ride through the city streets, harry holding his waist tightly and shouting at the wind, gratefulness floods into zayn's chest. harry must see him smile, because his hands come to wrap themselves over zayn's on the bike handles, and he drops a kiss on zayn's nape.  _perfectperfectperfect_  runs on a loop in zayn's mind.  
  
*  
  
(after that, it's a lot of laughing, stumbling on the stairs and stopping to kiss, trying not to get photographed with their hands down each other's pants, making out in the elevator, jumping on the bed, kissing until their lips feel bruised, sucking hickeys where everyone is most likely to see them (and other places too: the inside of harry's thigh, where it makes him quiver and moan; the crook of zayn's elbow; the shell of his ear), and then falling into each other, and only coming up for air much, much later, only to fall back on the mattress, harry's head pillowed on zayn's chest, zayn's arm draped around his waist.)  
  
*  
  
zayn expects the morning after to be awkward, because, well,  _morning after_ , but it's really, really not.  
  
the boys barge into his room at seven sharp, which,  _why_ , their day starts at ten, it's not like he needs  _three hours_  to do his hair, he's vain but not to this point. it turns out, quite unsurprisingly, that they intended to draw dicks on his face in sharpie ("very mature, guys," zayn says, looking at liam (isn't he supposed to be the  _sensible_  one?). liam has the grace to blush but louis just shrugs unapologetically) but stopped short at the sight of harry curled on his chest, instead choosing to wake them up with cheers and stealing the blanket.  
  
zayn starts thinking harry is a keeper when he doesn't freak out at that.  
  
after that, it just gets easier and easier – they decide to order room-service (zayn would prefer his coming-out to be when he's dressed and knows the last name of the guy he's with), harry and louis are apparently long-lost twins, and zayn and niall just seem to be  _fascinated_  by harry's hair (which, to be fair, is pretty fascinating), even though niall gets distracted by food along the way.  
  
they all learn that harry's last name is actually styles (that's a relief if he wants to go out on the balcony and scream to the world that he isn't, in fact, straight, at least), and that he's going off to the uk in a few months for his next year of school, studying photography. they swap numbers, there's a foodfight, and louis takes it upon itself 'to bestow the wonders of the boyband world upon young harold', whom he promptly nicknames 'hazza', despite harry's vehement protests.  
  
in short, it's all incredibly amazing and zayn's actually kind of having trouble believing that it's not a dream, considering how perfect it all is.  
  
it's only when harry leans into him and stage-whispers, "your friends are idiots, but i like you anyway," in his ear, that it hits him.  
  
"wait," he asks, "you actually speak english?"  
  
they all stop talking to stare at him and burst out laughing.  
  
harry smirks and shrugs, "you never asked."  
  
zayn can't bring himself to be mad, though, especially when there's harry on his lap, kissing the frown off his lips, and the sun shining outside, bright golden that seams to say  _you can do everything_ , reverberating in his best friends' smiles.  


**Author's Note:**

>   
>    _magret de canard à la sauce au poivre avec purée de carottes_ : duck fillet with pepper sauce and mashed carrots
> 
>  _bon appétit:_ enjoy your meal
> 
>  _bonsoir_ : good evening
> 
>  _comment allez-vous?_ : how are you? 
> 
>  _très bien_ : fine
> 
>  _tu en veux?_ : you want some? 
> 
>  _tu es mignon_ : you're cute
> 
>  _ton visage va rester bloqué comme ça_ : your face is going to stay stuck like that
> 
>  _voulez-vous coucher avec moi? ce soir?_ : do you want to sleep with me? tonight? (lyrics from  _lady marmalade_ , which i'm sure you all know)
> 
>  _oui_ : yes


End file.
